aspirations of grandeur

As a young girl I sang along to the Carpenters, Peter, Paul and Mary, and Bread.  There were others, too, I'm sure.

And do you know, I wanted to be a singer so badly.  So strong was the desire that my heart ached at times.

Because I had a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad voice.  My sister and my cousin told me so.  Once.  And they laughed at my tears.

So I became a teacher instead of a singer.  And I was happy.

Then along came Brandon, a tall, blond first grader, who decided to inform me that Mrs. Colosky, his kindergarten teacher, sang A LOT BETTER THAN ME.

Oh, the ache.

Now last year my beloved Paul looked me straight in the eye, cupped my face in his hands, and said, "I love the way you sing."  The song was "Hush Little Baby", and I've sung it hundreds of times.  That's apparently how long it takes for me to sound good.

Anyway, I also really want to be a good cook.  Very badly.  But the thing is, once again, I'm pretty horrible at it.

No one but me spends ninety minutes, while fighting sheer exhaustion, looking at different recipes for homemade chicken broth--learning about all the intricacies.  I hate touching chicken, but my hubby thankfully does that part--he's the meat lover and I'd just as soon never buy meat again.  Unfortunately, all our children take after him--real carnivores.

I may have to practice a good year or more, but by golly, someday....

Someday....I am going to make chicken broth worth commenting on.

And someone will cup my face in their hands, look me in the eye, and say, "I really love the way you make chicken broth."

The End